


An Apple A Day

by Bingothefarmersdog



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 01 (Critical Role), F/M, Forced Ejaculation, Hope you enjoy, I'm Sorry, Its disgusting and I am ashamed, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism, So so sorry, Torture, i feel like i need a shower to wash this off, torture kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bingothefarmersdog/pseuds/Bingothefarmersdog
Summary: When Anna first met Percy, he was just one more victim of her torture, one more de Rolo to pick apart for information. He was nothing special. But peel back all the layers, dig into him a little bit, and Ripley finds quite a bit about Percival is worth her attention.





	1. Doctor, Doctor.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i don't need you (but i need so much more)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893555) by [sparxwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites). 



> Sparx, I blame you, this is your fault. Dirty minds think alike, I'm just taking it a step further.

The first time she had him, he was so _unbearably_ boring, she wondered if this night would ever end. If it would just drag on into torturous eternity, going on forever and ever. She'd been looking forward to this for hours. Getting to the work, the play, getting to the _good part._ But honestly this evening could not have gone any worse, any more different than it was supposed to, than it was expected to. It was almost cruel.

He was just like the rest of them of course, just one in a long line of jobs completed in a rush, quick and dirty. They were all the same, and he was just like the rest, soft, untested, untrained. This was so mediocre, there was hardly any reason to try anymore. It was boring! There was no challenge here, nothing complicated, nothing intriguing. How could a pup, a noble's second son, have anything to interest her. He was boring. This whole night had been boring.

_So. fucking. boring!_

Boring, but she still paid attention anyway. It was too easy, but that was still fun in a languid kind of way, a smug satisfaction at the very simplicity of it. Maybe it was simple, but it was still a job that had to be done, and a job that she was good at. So she kept focus, and kept going, even with the growl of discontentment in the back of her head.

You had to take your time with these things, that was the key, that was what everybody fucked up. You had to take your time, take a look. It was a journey, a discovery, and you couldn't rush something so delicate. So she did take her time, and looked him over, strapped down to the table, with just as much care as she had the rest, with the same practiced eye. Not that she would find anything, he would be just like the rest, just as _Same_ , but it was still worth checking.

Thin. Lanky. Too tall for his own comfort. That meant growing, filling out, still stretching himself. Brown hair. Boring, blasé brown, just like everybody else. It made her want to scream in frustration. Not as muscular as his older brother had been, not as rail thin as the younger brothers, but somewhere in between the two. He was toned...That was nice...

Right in the sweet spot that made him masculine, yet still let him carry a faint boyish touch.

Quite pale. Fear maybe? Dread? Or just his natural shade. She hoped it was the last choice. Only halfway through the job, and she was already sick of fear. A pathetic dusting of stubble. Almost adorable in its patchiness. Couldn't see much of the mouth. He was gagged. But that didn't matter, it was the eyes that were worth paying attention to. You could always learn so much from eyes. A dark, steely blue, going gray toward the center. Unusually long lashes, like a woman.

That was nice too...

Pupils dilated. Large, dark, and liquid in the center of his iris. So probably pale from fear then. Why did they all have to feel fear? It was sickening. Too easy. Too normal. So weak she could take him apart right here. Leaning over him, possessive, threatening, she waited for the terror to become pungent, suffocating. He would fall apart just like the rest of them, shaking to pieces...

She groped him.

Her fingers were up between his legs, kneading, investigating, _invading_. It was a strange sensation, feeling him through his clothes. The whole experience was new, delightfully different from the rest of this achingly dull evening, something she'd never thought of checking before. He bucked, shied away from the touch, and her concentration shattered, jerking her hand away as if he'd burned her.

Why had she done that?

It shocked her, but yielded interesting results, despite how unexpected it had been. His breathing rapid, almost panicked, terrified, and somehow...aggressive. A fear that lashed out at others, striking in order to shield itself.

That, had been _very_ nice.

A long moment was required to pull her thoughts back together, to stitch her focus back into one piece. Her fingers were still burning where she'd touched him, the tingle irritatingly distracting, pulling her thoughts apart. It was impossible, her thoughts were magnetically dragged back the boy laid out helpless before her, and she gave in. This felt dangerously close to something like Need, like Dependance, something she never could tolerate; but the _draw_ , what ever it was, still had its uses, its channel. Maybe this could be put to some use. After all, it had already offered a new, much needed, energy boost.

With new vigor she returned to the task at hand, methodically selecting a pair of scissors from among her many laid out tools, and beginning to cut his clothes away so she could work. His breathing grew rapid again, anxious as she slowly removed his clothes. His panic was _incredibly_ rewarding. Starting upward and working her way down, she cut along the shoulders of his jacket, turning it into something she could slide off his body. His waistcoat got the same treatment, followed by his shirt, quietly unbuttoned and then cut away, leaving him bare at last. Strictly speaking trousers should have been next in the chronological order, but she paused to slide off his boots and other footwear. At last however there was nothing else to do but set about the task of exposing him completely, cutting up the inside of the trousers and drawers, then the outside of the legs, and slide them away like she had the rest of his clothes.

He wasn't as dignified when completely bared, his slender lack of heavy muscle even more pronounced without the bulk of clothes. And his genitals, as nice as they'd been through his trousers, were awkward and unsightly when exposed. The point wasn't satisfying herself, there was nothing for her here that tantalized her. Her true aim was _humiliation_. The obvious power play of striping him raw and laying him out, placing herself above him, in control of both him and his clothes.

Once he was completely exposed she laid aside the scissors, selecting a shaving razor from among the array of other larger and smaller knives, and turning her back to him while she mixed a small bowl of lather. This was always one of her _favorite_ parts: starting at the shoulders and beginning to slide all that body hair away. Hair was never a nice part of these operations. It always stank when burned, would get smeared and unsightly with blood, and of course obscured any fine work that needed doing. So she always took time for this, even when everything else was supremely unrewarding.

He flinched and began to struggle again as she sank _lower_ , and she hummed appreciatively when the razor caught the skin wrong, sending a little tracing of scarlet down between his legs. Blood mingled in with the white lather, swirling into lazy pinkish patterns that she paused to admire, before he jerked again and ruined the picture. She growled, and dug a sharp elbow into his stomach, forcefully keeping him still beneath her. Fear fueled his struggling as she worked around his crotch, probably expecting more uninvited touching. But she was too focused for that, working her way further down, until at last she reached the ankle, finally rinsed him without validating his fear, leaving him limp and relieved on the table behind her as she washed out the inside of her cup.

Now at last, they could get down to the true purpose of the evening. Finally cleaned to her meticulous satisfaction, the razor was set aside, and the scissors once again resumed. Bending with careful fingers, she cut away the gag that muzzled his mouth, folding it on top of his equally neat pile of clothes. He let out an involuntary sigh at the release, breathing rapidly through his mouth and swallowing.

"Feeling quite comfortable?" She asked, leaning over him, and sliding a hand into his hair. Gently she massaged her fingers through the dark tousle, scratched faintly against his scalp, then tensed and suddenly gave a vicious tug. "It's important for you to feel relaxed and comfortable, while I explain the rules."

"I feel quite at ease, thank you for the concern." He said sarcastically, but a little hitch of pain in his voice belied the tone, and she smiled tolerantly. _Still_ trying to put up a mask, even though he was already completely naked, shaved smooth like a woman, and strapped down beneath her.

"That's good," she replied. "Well then, I'll explain the rules for you. They really aren't that complicated. When you do what I want, I'll be kind to you, when you don't cooperate, I'm going to hurt you. Very very badly. Do you understand?"

He scowled at her, but she could see that he understood, he was a smart boy, of course he understood.

"Very well, lets start with something simple." She said, turning briefly to select one of her smaller knives, that was almost more of a scalpel. "What's your name?"

A harmless question, but as she'd noticed before, he was a smart boy. The silent surrender any answer (no matter how simple) offered, was far from being beyond his notice. And he wasn't cowed yet. He was untested, and didn't know enough to save his resistance till it truly mattered, choosing instead to waste it while it wouldn't make a difference. It was such a foolish move, it filled her with sudden disgust, and she almost didn't have the patience to continue.

"I need your name Boy."

Stubborn silence.

The frustration suddenly boiled over. She was already slicing into his hand before she knew what she was doing, and had to restrain herself to get the focus back, to ride that edge of exquisite pain drawn out as agonizingly as she could make it. He arched his back and writhed, his response just as violent, and sensitive as she had hoped, and she rode the swell of sensation with him. Grinning, she worked in deeper, tilting the blade to cut underneath the surface and flay the skin back.

"Percival!" He stammered, yielding to the pressure, breathing hard. "My name's Percival."

"Just Percival?" Tweaking the scrap of flayed skin up from the flesh underneath.

"Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo."

"That's a good boy Percival," she purred, cutting the loose skin away from his hand in a neat square with one slash of her knife. "I'm glad you understood the rules after all."

"Fuck you."

"I'll choose to ignore that, this one time, but you really will have to learn better behavior in the future."

Brushing past the brief victory, she continued into the questions. She'd asked them all the same things, dull useless questions with dull useless answers, and these proved no different. One after the other, until she could hardly stand it. Then suddenly, he resisted her, peaking her interest again.

"Where are the rest of your siblings?"

"I don't know." It was a flat lie, trying to sound like a truth.

"Come come Percival, you already learned what happens when you resist."

"I don't know, so fuck off."

"Didn't I tell you I'd only tolerate the rudeness once my boy?"

She ran the blade down the length of his chest, drawing a bloody line from sternum to groin, tilting her head as he tried in vain to keep the pain muzzled. But as the blade crossed the plane of his stomach, she drew a ragged scream from him, straining hard against his restraints. It was strangled, labored, clawing his throat raw, answering everything she wanted. But still she found herself needing _more_. He wasn't truly beaten yet.

Crouching low and almost needy over him, she forced his head back, and wrenched his mouth open, pushing the blade inside. She dragged the knife deep and cruel across the surface of his tongue, eliciting a wracked sob, that quickly became strangled gasps and wet coughing as blood surged down his throat. Straining his head back so he could hardly swallow, and clamping his mouth shut so he couldn't cough the blood back up, she choked him. _Reveling_ in the wet strangled sounds he made, the desperate attempts to swallow the blood down, the way he convulsed underneath her. It was _everything_.

At last she released him, breathing just as hard as he was, watching _fascinated_ as he brought thick blood and bile back up. It was sickening, and somehow intensely _alluring_ at the same time, watching him empty himself. Watching the wet, sullied, and broken mess of him. And she wanted more. Wanted everything. His blood and spit, his piss and stomach bile, his feverish heat and her own sudden uncontrollable horniness.

She _fixed_ her mouth to his before she could think about it, smothering his labored breathing with another blockage. It was everything she wanted and more. Glory, fire, stomach turning bitterness. And hot, hot, wet hot, _arousal_. The acidic bite of vomit, the salted slide of sweat, the copper burn of blood in his mouth and hers. One hand clawed into his limp sweat soaked hair, hot and needy, the other sinking sharp nails into the side of his neck. She pushed into him, invading, exploring everything. Sliding her tongue against his, she moaned hot and heavy, when she tasted the blood and heat that still poured from where she had mutilated his tongue.

Then the soft yielding heat was over, his tongue was gone and _teeth_ bit back in its place, fighting hard and fierce against her. Opening himself wider to her, he sank his teeth hard and vicious down into her skin, raking across her. She was forced to pull back as he ripped into her face, the fiery bliss crudely shattered, and one hand went to her face, exploring the ragged edge of what he had done. He snarled at her, grinning through her blood smeared on his face, and she _thrilled_ at the challenge, clenching hard between her legs.

Oh, _this_ wasn't boring at all! This wasn't like the others, this was new, this was different. Like the press of his genitals against her exploring fingers, this was nothing like what she'd felt before, and it was intoxicating. She was already hooked, obsessed, addicted to the red hot allure of him. Like a tightly closed chestnut, he was fighting her, and she...

She would break him...

There would be no more questions now. Just pain, after pain, after pain, every torture she could devise; until he was limp and bloodless, until he was pleading with her to stop. It was so fucking _stimulating_ , watching him crumble apart. Listening as his breathing turned to screaming, then sank back to labored panting, like he couldn't wait for more.

When she finally did stop, when she was finally exhausted, somehow achingly satisfied and _intensely hungry_ in the same instant, he was in a bloodless daze, his breathing barely more than a fragile thread seeping out of him. She had utterly ruined him, ravaging his perfect body mercilessly, till she'd laid predatory marks on every inch of him. Leaning over, she placed another soft lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth, that danced sideways to press against his lips. He struggled to lash back at her, but his attempts were as weak and fragile as he was, easy to ignore, and she didn't place herself anywhere she'd be in easy reach this time.

Hot and pleasantly loose, she opened the door, inviting the two guards outside to take her charge away. Their expressions were appropriately blank, their eyes dead. But she couldn't have cared less, even if they saw everything. She watched them drag him away, his arms straggled weakly over their shoulders, as blood soaked into their clothes from the contact with him. Then she was left alone, hands shaking and breathing hard, scorched by an aching, longing, wet, and white hot _itch_ between her legs that demanded immediate attention.


	2. The Best Doctor Gives No Medicine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Percy's POV. More focus on literal torture in this update, and less explicit, achem, SEXUAL content in this chapter. Mostly winding up the tension right now.

Oh God, did he hate her. With every fiber of his being, he _loathed_ her. She was sick, and she made him sick, and there wasn't one goddamned thing he could do about it. He was completely, utterly, at her mercy, victim to her slightest whims.

"Welcome back, had a nice little nap did we?"

The world blurred dangerously as soon as he tried to stir, his stomach clenching at the sound of her voice. She was _happy_ , far too happy for the circumstances, her good cheer tasteless and mocking. A slap across his cheek was sharp and grounding, bringing the world into sharp focus. Leaning over him she smiled, patting his face gently after the hard slap, like a cat tightly coiled with satisfaction.

He'd never known what the smile of a killer looked like, but he knew the signs now. It was all sharp edges and brilliance, the glitter of perfect teeth, and something a shade too close to predatory. _Anatomically_ perfect, but entirely devoid of genuine warmth. Eyes that were dead inside.

That one look never changed. He knew that she enjoyed it: twisting him, raking him raw. She _worshiped_ it almost. But even when she was in the throws of it, caught up in the thrill; when she smiled in satisfaction and thanked him for helping her with her "experiments" that smile never reached the eyes.

"Ah, ah, none of that now. Time to look alive Boy."

He'd been drifting, loosing focus.

She had a long needle buried into his leg under the kneecap, and violently tweaked it now, sending a raw stab of pain through his leg, up the groin, and into his stomach. When she finally released him, he was sobbing, chest hitching with labored gasps. All the shredded edges of adrenaline, controlled nausea, burning weariness, and rapid panicky breathing were back, settling into him for another long bout of pure hell.

"That's better..." She soothed, "I know you're tired, but try to pay attention love, and I'll try not to bore you."

Gentle fingers combed through his hair, fondly swirling the limp curls into damp patterns against his skull. She was frighteningly earnest as she shushed him, the genuine _motherliness_ in her tone making his skin crawl. Then a fresh _stab_ as she yanked out the needle, and he nearly threw up, squirming uselessly on the table, and fighting hard to keep his stomach in check. He'd had a fresh meal just one Space ago, and it had been nine weary Spaces of waiting before that, he couldn't afford to loose the food now.

There was no way to know how long he'd been trapped with her, no measurements, no changes. Only blank stretches of time that he knew nothing about. All he knew was that it was more than a day, it had to be, had to be, there was no other alternative. He hoped.

 _Prayed_.

Coming down from the agony's pinnacle, he crumpled into a limp heap on the table, fire still blazing up his leg. His stomach rolled again as she held up the needle to the light, humming tunefully as she examined it against the lamp overhead. It was a vicious thing, long and surgically straight, with a barbed hook at the end that was loaded with bloodied shreds of flesh.

"Do you like it?" She asked, looking down at him briefly. "I hope you do, because it's something new for us to play with, and we're going to have so _much_ fun with it."

Laying the hook aside, she pressed her hand over his knee, drawing a whimper but restraining the pressure to something that (compared with the rest) was something like bearable. Blood soaked through her fingers, and she rubbed it between her fingertips as she withdrew her hand, smiling with faint curiosity. She turned away, washing her hands in a basin of already bloody water, then dampened a rag and began to clean his leg. There was an expertise to her movements as she treated the wound, a delicacy of touch that was born from long practice, and she hardly even concentrated, letting her hands do the thinking.

"I've been thinking we should have a change of pace, something to freshen the mood up," she remarked conversationally, chatting as she worked. "Too much of the same gets a little tiring, don't you agree? Always over and over, the same thing again and again. Like human history, doomed to repeat itself in one long unending circle, repeating the mistakes of our sires, grandsires, and all sires back to the beginning of the universe. Washing a dish just so that it can be reused again, sweeping a floor so that it can collect more dirt, making up a bed just so you can sleep in it later. Repetition is the poison of existence--"

God, she was feeling talkative...

Another sickening wave of pain, enough to almost make him numb and lightheaded, blazed through his leg, as she suddenly leaned all her weight on the weakened joint. His vision went grainy, blurring into stomach churning static. He'd been drifting again...it was so _hard_ to keep focused anymore...

"You fucking listen when I'm talking _bitch_." She snarled, suddenly aggressive and _dominating_ , her fingers clawing into his leg.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He hastily amended, groaning as she leaned in harder, trailing off into a sobbing, " _please..._ "

She drew a long shaking breath, regaining control, and the pressure on his leg slowly released.

"It really isn't civil," she growled, grinding words out through her teeth as she forcibly bandaged the knee, putting all her weight into it. "When I'm trying so hard to keep you entertained, and you fall into a stupor on me, it makes me feel as if I'm simply not doing enough. Maybe I just need to try harder, is that it? Is that what you want?"

It was not. _At all._ What he wanted. That was for damn sure. But she was looking at him expectantly, hovering threateningly close to her tools, and he knew she wanted an answer. Not just an answer, but the _right_ answer, or it would mean more suffering for him. She'd flay him raw if he didn't please her, here and now.

"Thank you..." He whispered, voice barely more than a rasp with all the abuse it had been taking. But she liked the whisper, he could see that well enough. Her body coiled up like the satisfied cat again, as soon as she heard it. "It's not your fault, it's mine."

The dead eyed smile was back, fingers once again stroking into his hair. He'd appeased her for the moment. Soothed her back into motherly complacence, and he took the risk of relaxing slightly, just enough to give his screaming muscles a moment of respite.

"That's a good boy, it's healthy to recognize your weaknesses, or you'll never learn to grow past them." She said, murmuring gentle words of comfort as she stroked and praised him like a favorite pet. "It's very promising, seeing you take some responsibility. You deserve a reward."

Moving to the bottom of the table, her icy fingers found the leather restraints around his ankles, and she slowly undid them. Screaming pain scorched up through his legs as he shifted them, instantly dulled by overwhelming relief at the change of position. Aching and stiff, he pulled his legs up until they were folded close together, savoring the stinging release of it.

"You liked that didn't you..." She said, an amused laugh clinging to her voice. "Such a good boy deserves the privilege. Now we can get to the change of entertainment I talked about."

 _Dread_ ran through his stomach, but she only retrieved a sketchbook from the corner of the room where she had folded her coat.

"Spread your legs lovie."

He faltered at that, clenching his knees more tightly together. With a low growl she released one of his hands from the cuffs, then pushed her fingers in between his legs, coaxing him. As soon as she released him, his hand seized her's, trying to pull her away. But he was so much weaker than her at this point, with all she'd put him through, there wasn't much point in trying.

"Cover yourself with a hand, if you like, I don't give a fuck. But you _will_ spread your legs for me." She said, a hint of menace creeping back into her tone, cautioning him. She thrust his hand away, guiding it down toward his crotch. He did as she said, still clenching tight together, and her face darkened.

"I thought I made it _very_ clear what happens when you don't please me, Percival."

There wasn't much of a choice, when faced with such a direct threat. And the use of his proper name was a screaming danger sign, no more 'love' and 'good boy' now. She'd take what she wanted anyway, whether or not he wanted her to. But not until she'd made sure he paid dearly for the disobedience.

Slowly he obeyed her, base instincts still screaming in protest, despite the logic of it. Grinning again, she ran her hand across his knee. The touch danced low enough to make him cringe, but she drew her hand away without going beyond the _edge_ , once again humming her little song. Settling herself at the end of the table, she laid out her sketchbook and began to trace pencil over paper, glancing up every few seconds for reference.

He couldn't watch this, and let his head drop back to look at the ceiling instead, breathing shallow. Keeping as still as possible, he tried to turn his brain off as the quiet began to force its way into his head. Low shivers slowly took him, until his whole body was _shaking_ uncontrollably, and he struggled to keep his breathing even through the panic.

It wasn't direct torture anymore, but something much more refined than that. Much more _personal_ than that. The thoughts invading as the brain tortured itself. A thick syrupy blend of emotions that choked and sickened, forcing him somewhere dark and _disgusting_ he didn't want to go.

Oh God, _please_ let this be over soon.

The soft scratch of her sketching had stopped, silence magnifying the background confusion in his head. He wanted to know what she was doing, but his head was rooted to the table, and the only movement pure instinct inspired was to close his legs again. She growled at that, a mutter of discontent, but there was no punishment. Only the chilled fingers pushing him apart again.

When there was no cooperation, she pushed harder, humming slightly in a wordless prompt. Forcing the _fear_ back down, he did as she demanded, earning a loving pat on the knee. But the submission didn't satisfy her, the fingers had found his free hand, peeling him _away_ finger by finger. His hand needed something to grip, and he locked it around the edge of the table as he exposed himself, anchoring to the wood's inanimate dependability. Her fingers _massaged_ between his legs again, like a nightmare that he couldn't wake up from, and the pathetic _whine_ she drew from him wasn't like any sound he thought he was capable of uttering.

The low chaos of thoughts had become a clamor, a _screaming_. An endless silent stream of No, No, No, please, please no. Oh _please God_ no...

When her _tongue_ burned across him, scorching him, _sucking_ him into her mouth, he broke. Before he knew what he was doing, before he could form any coherent thought but a blind denial of his _helplessness_ , he turned over, clawing his hand across the few of her knives within reach. Fingers locking around the biggest one, he slashed out at her face, cutting across cheek, lips, and fingers as she brought a hand up to shield herself. There was no time to undo the clasp around his other wrist, and he sawed at it with the knife instead.

It was impossibly sharp, ground down to a razor point that bit through the leather and peeled off part of the skin on his wrist with it. But in the blind adrenaline fueled fight for survival, he couldn't bring himself to care, and slithered off the table. One foot met the ground with trembling stability, shaking but taking his weight. The other, carved out by the barbed needle, buckled under the strain.

Favoring the bad leg, he scrambled toward the door, fueled by desperate fire. There was no direction to his crawl, and no hope of escape even if he reached the door. But he made the effort anyway. _Anything_ was better than submission.

Doomed from the start, his good leg was pulled out from under him, and he was dragged backward fighting and wordlessly _screaming_ into the arms of his captor behind him. Growling with unbridled fury, she crushed him into the ground underneath her. Something was strapped painfully tight around his wrists behind his back and another locked over his ankles, with dull spines that dug into his skin when pulled up toward his hands or down toward the feet.

"That." She snarled, cracking his head into the ground with a brute force that made him go limp, and flopping his body back onto the table. "Was not. At all. What I call. _Civil_."

Reaching down as she spoke, she freed a long length of iron manacles from one of her tool bags under the table. Getting up next to him, she locked the chain on the iron ring from which the lantern hung, and let the leftover dangle. By the hair she grappled him, and he continued to struggle as she lifted him, but her strength still outmatched his as she jerked him to his feet.

"When a savage dog bites me, the only _safe_ thing for me to do is chain him up until he's tamed."

Pulling his arms back until they were straining at the edge of what they could stand, she locked the spiked restraints around his hands into the chain. With that too _perfect_ smile lighting up her face, she stepped back, leaving him dangling on the balls of his feet.

"You can stay there, until you learn how to enjoy your _rewards_ , like a good boy."


	3. Dr. Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definite TRIGGER WARNING on this chapter for the literal Rape. Anna Ripley is one seriously fucked up individual, and when she gets obsessed with a project, she'll stop at nothing to get what she wants.

It took days for him to finally bend. But the wait, the watching, the carefully controlled patience, was well rewarded. It was a battle of wills, one in which she could effortlessly outlast him beyond the limit. All she had to do really was set up his failure, just sit back. And _wait_.

He fought well at first. For most of the first day he held himself together, keeping up the balancing act. Standing on the table, arms chained behind him, and unable to relax without dislocating his shoulders from the body weight. On the second day he tried, with increasing desperation, to relax. It was _amusing_ to watch him struggle, watch him test the boundaries, fumbling at the edge of what he could endure, chasing after any kind of relief. The moments of semi uncontioustess began to creep in, his head sinking for a moment, while other times his eyes glazed over or his body went slightly limper than usual, and she had a full day making sure to prevent even the brain's befuddled efforts to catch breathing room.

Through most of the third day he mumbled constantly, slurring garbled jargon that had no meaning, and which he seemed unable to stop. After that, the downward spiral was fast and _brutal_. His eyes would fix on the walls or empty floor, staring off into space at objects that only he could see. The muttering turned into unintelligible conversations with himself or others, often speaking too rapidly to form coherent words.

The flow of words would become frenzied and excited when she got close. The mumbled words becoming fearful, panicked, exquisitely _satisfying_ , whimpers. Like a dog trained to fear a certain piece of clothing, her presence never failed to excite him, and she lived for it. Teasing him to give her more, while he was unable to mask the clear reaction to her.

He sank into a short seizure near the end of the fourth day.

It was just her name first, thrown in among the rest of the babble, one more unintelligible string of thought tangled with the others. But he repeated it, fuzzily going over the same prompt in his head, and trying to tease it from the rest.

"Anna."

She was sitting on a low couch that had been moved into the room, allowing her to bask in front of the fire. It, and the rug in front of the hearth, were _ridiculously_ out of place in the otherwise cheerless room, two pieces of luxury she'd pinched from one of the abandoned sitting rooms. She was in the middle of a simple knitting project in front of the fire, just something to keep her occupied while she waited. And his voice caught her attention this time. The inflection was different, clearly directed to her, or about her, and not simply an inner thought spoken aloud.

"That is my name love, what do you want?"

"Anna..."

"I already explained lovie, you're not getting off the leash until you behave like a good boy, so stop begging."

That was when he started seizing, twitching uncontrollably. His eyes rolled back, and he fell completely limp against the chains, the only things preventing him from dropping to the tabletop. And then all she could do was watch, enraptured, as he fell apart completely. It was like watching a living breathing peace of art, every line of it perfect. The chaos somehow still a harmony, as it rose to a crescendo, then faded back into occasional jerks.

And then?

Then the sound of low hitching sobs, as he finally broke down and sniveled like a toddler in her presence. He was crying. Falling apart, right in front of her. She'd planned on abstaining completely, leaving him alone until he broke, but she _had_ to feel this. Feel all of it. Learn every tiny detail of it. He was just too fucking _tempting_. A sensual feast of raw broken emotions for her to feed on, laid out before her, just for her to enjoy. Quite apart from all the _other_ things she wanted to do to him, it was simply too intriguing for her to pass up, watching him succumb to the pain.

Exploring hands found his bare chest, feeling the shudders running through his lungs, the violent tempo of his heart, the sharp hitching efforts to breathe through it all. She felt the boiling fevered heat of his head hanging limp next to her cheek, the rush of his labored sobbing against her neck, the salted stink of his sweaty hair filling her brain. Shushing him, she ran her fingers through his hair again. And then the intoxicating heat of salted _tears_ that burned into fingers, when she touched his cheek.

Yes...oh _fuck_ yes...

She wanted him. Wanted to touch him again. Wanted it with such a hot _physical_ craving, that it was almost more than she could do to restrain herself. Even though he hadn't cracked yet, even though she'd drilled herself not to give in first.

 _That_ or touch herself. Her body was already begging for it, really. She was getting ridiculously wet from all this. With the state she was already in, it wouldn't take much more than a short finger fuck to get her off  _hard_. Just considering it made her gut clench, looking forward to it.

Her hands crawled down his face, stroking across the jaw, and following the trail of tears down his neck. She felt his skin jump under her fingertips, shivering against her touch. A low chuckle stuttered in his chest as he dangled weakly, almost in her grasp, breathless laughter tearing into his lungs as he hung his head. The laughing was crazed, mirthless, mingling amidst wrenching sobs, and she could tell it was not a completely sane or healthy sound. He was close, clinging to resolve that was thin as a spider's thread, almost defeated already. So close.

She almost had him now.

What she _wanted_ could wait. Not long, she didn't have the strength left to wait _long_ , but then again neither did he. It was a close game, but she would have staked everything she had on her odds at this point. Close, but she would win, had to win.

By this time he was clearly floating in a daze, sometimes weeping openly, at other times loosing himself in hysterical inane giggles. In the few short hours that followed he worked his wrist restraints until the skin underneath was raw, trailing blood down his arms, but the fatigue seemed to have dulled the pain. She caught her own name again and again, angry, apologetic, insulting, pleading, repeated with a thousand different emotions. The weeping got more frequent, more _desperate_ , and she drank it in like a nectar. A sweet, _sweet_ balm, glowing warm and soft between her legs.

Almost had him now...

But he didn't break. She waited, and waited, coiled and ready like a patient spider. But the fly evaded her, refusing to dance within her reach. Frustration wound up tight inside her, as he pleaded with her, repeating it over and over again. _Please, Anna, please. Please, please, please_. The insult of it made her blood boil, anger rising in her veins.

As if _begging_ would make one whit of difference with her. Did he really think her so weak as to give in now?

She snapped. Throwing away her knitting needles she started out of her lounging position on the couch, moving toward the door. She'd spent as much time as she could with him, but every now and then even she needed sleep, and then it had been one of the guards watching over him while she regained her strength. It was for a different reason now, but she was ready to leave him for the evening, feeling vengeful enough to let him hang and never come back.

No one would have the gall to question her methods. If she wanted, she could let him dangle himself to death, and satisfy herself with the parts later. Not what she'd _wanted_ certainly, but enough to keep her _happy_.

"No, no, no. Please!" The pleading grew frenzied as she drew away, and she could hear him fighting the chain, making a last valiant effort. His refusal of her choice, that perverse, stubborn 'no' made her grit her teeth. Boring. So predictable after all. She'd reached the end of him, there was no more challenge here, no more hidden pockets of strength to keep her guessing. At last, she'd found the edge of what he would do, how far he'd go, pushed to his limit and no farther.

" _Anna_ , please..."

It came to her as a groan, deep in his chest. Something rough and broken, weary to exhaustion, that made her skin prickle, and she paused with her hand on the door, thrilled into stillness by the sudden tone. That caught her attention, and held her were she was.

" _Please_." Strange, how it was the same word, but suddenly had a completely different meaning.

"Yes love?" She said turning, and placing her back against the door, looking at him.

His eyes had become clouded, dazed, gazing at her in a trance as if she filled his vision. The pupils were blown _wide_ and black, little shivers running down his entire body. And he strained toward her through the chain, pushing himself as close as he could, like a puppy begging to be let off his leash so he could frolic.

"Anna...please..." he whispered, voice little more than a frayed thread, but satisfaction curled over her shoulders at the sound. It was the drawn pleading of someone who was beaten, who was ground to nothing. Had nothing but their voice left.

"Was there something you wanted love?" She purred, crossing the room.

Settling her hands on either side of his head, she drew his face into her neck, shuddering at the rush of _breath_ across her skin.

"Something you wanted to tell me maybe?" She whispered in his ear, letting her lips linger just slightly across the soft velvety skin.

"I"m ready to be a good boy."

 _Ahhhh_...damn, that felt good...

"Ready to have our reward then?"

All he could muster was a meek nod, pressing his head limply into her shoulder. But it was all she needed. All she had _patience_ for really...

She tasted his ear first, it was so conveniently close, running her tongue along the outer curve. Then she pressed inside, and _clenched_ appreciatively when he shuddered and _whimpered_. But he made no attempt to draw away, remaining completely boneless in her grip, and she sank her attentions to the sensitive skin underneath his earlobe. The taste of his skin already had her in a low haze, but her hands didn't need clear directions on her part, they already knew _exactly_ what they were looking for.

The first time she'd touched him it had been sudden and new, not much more than an impetuous exploration into completely new territory. But every investigation into him _since_ then had gone deeper, pulled at her harder, left her wanting to do it again. Now the heat of him was everything, and her palms itched to feel all of him.

She grinned as his breath caught in his throat, fingers slithering in to _grip_ him, then pushed _farther_ , past his cock up to his ass. He jumped when she rubbed a finger across the tight clench, letting a weak sob into her shoulder, and she _relished_ it. Laughing she ran a long stroke of her tongue across neck, bit down, and sucked hard, crushing teeth and tongue against his skin. The other hand had found his cock by now, rubbing over the length.

"Do you like it love?" She whispered, coming up to suck his ear again. When he didn't answer, she forced the finger  _into_ him and crooked it, growling threateningly. "Show me how much you _love_ it."

His breath hitched shakily against her neck, sending more shivers over her skin. With adorable hesitance he pushed his hips toward her, giving into her hands, clearly afraid it was not what she meant. Humming her approval, she drew him closer, and he obediently ground _up_ against her stroking, chasing for more.

She knew he didn't really want it. The entire length of his body was trembling, sobs catching in his throat, but he was getting hard anyway, and well...how could she resist really? He did know how to put on a _charming_ show, even if he didn't mean it.

"Thats it, I knew you liked it...Look at you, getting hard already!"

Another sob against her neck, and this time it made her _moan_. Made her shudder, and falter for the barest instant, before returning harder and more demanding. She hadn't expected it, hadn't known how _much_ she could get off from talking him down...She'd meant to humiliate him with it, just one more device to make the pain linger...but when it came down to it, she was getting surprisingly turned on.

Interesting...

"I really will have to train you to be patient in the future, won't I? I'll have to make you wait. But we can leave that...for now..." She couldn't talk anymore, as _nice_ as it was, she was loosing focus on it. Her attention was being pulled away, being pulled downward. _Touching_ wasn't enough anymore. She needed to _taste_.

He cried out when she latched her mouth on his erection, a louder sound than he'd yet made. A cry of inner pain. It made her moan again, listening to him, and she sucked down.

This was what she lived for. The dominance, the raw undiluted _power_. It wasn't about pleasing him, it never had been. This was about taking him, claiming him, making him hers. To torture, to use, to touch, to please or deprive. To _play_ with. He belonged to her, and she...

She would _mark_ him...make him fall apart to her...

Part of her wanted to keep teasing his ass, just to make him come sooner, just to claim him as quick and brutally as possible. But she was _hungry_. Raping him had gotten her achingly, overwhelmingly, _pathetically_ aroused, and she couldn't pass it up. She _had_ to touch herself.

He went limp with relief when one hand released him, but that didn't matter. Plenty of time to tear him apart once she was satisfied. Her teasing became less focused, absentminded, as she clawed her free hand up under her skirt, shifting to find a good position. Then she pushed her fingers in, clenching hard at _how good_ it felt, and moaned, loud, _obscene_. Already breathing hard and shuddering with the pleasure, she rocked forward into her own fingers.

Sucking on him made her more _inflamed_ , serving the dual purpose of keeping herself quiet, and she devoured him, pushing one knee up onto the table so she could open herself further. That small shift was the final piece, opening herself to be _stroked_ deep and hard, making her moan in the back of her throat like a bitch in heat. It didn't take long. Was actually surprising she managed to hold herself together for as long as she did.

God...Oh god...Oh god, _yes_...

The walls of her cunt closed in around her fingers, sucking down greedily. Burning alive with the pleasure, she _released_ , slick gushing against her hand. A moment of _bliss_ that went on forever, consuming her alive.

 _Now_. Time to finish off Percival...

Without bothering to get settled again, or pull her undergarments back up, she wrapped her hand back around his cock. Using her leftover fluids to pleasure him fast and hard. He buckled over when he was close, and she impetuously locked her mouth around his dick, not knowing why she wanted this.

Laughable really, how easy it had been to force him over the edge...He came, hard and shuddering. And she accepted him into her mouth, letting him use her, but she didn't swallow. That was beneath her. As soon as it was over he immediately went limp, shaking and uncontrollably _sobbing_. Disgusting. How quickly and thoroughly he'd become utterly spent. She'd have to make him work harder in the future.

But for now, it was enough. He'd been a good boy after all, he'd worked hard, he deserved some rest.

Pushing up into his face, she captured him for a kiss, slow and (on her end at least) still _charged_ with pent up desire. He gaged when she pushed his own spend into his mouth, unwilling to accept it. But she bit down hard and menacing on his lip, a silent threat to _stay obedient_ , and he swallowed. Ruffling his hair, she climbed up onto the table, and detached the chain that had held him, from the ring from which it had dangled. As soon as he was released, he tumbled forward too weak to hold himself, but she'd been ready to support his weight.

Carrying most of his weight, she half guided, half _dragged_ him, off the table. When they reached her couch, she let him collapse onto the cushions, and he drifted into uncontioustess almost as soon as he was laid out. Poor lad, he really had been driven to the limit after nearly five days without sleep. It was _adorable_ , watching how quickly he succumbed to sleep now, leaving the morning, and all its cares until it came. He was so out of it already, he probably wouldn't have noticed if she treated herself to a final round of _playtime..._ but she could wait for now.

She bent down and secured his chain to the couch, just a precaution, and not much more. There was no way for him to escape, even if he could wriggle out of his tether, and she'd take the precaution of keeping her toys out of convenient reach. When she'd finally moved even her knitting needles to a safe distance, she settled on the rug, back to the fire, and watched him sleep. He was still naked of course, and she couldn't help admiring the nudity of him in the firelight. She imagined he wouldn't look any worse with a little _age_ , and some more muscle.

Quite a _fetching_ boy really...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, going back through the old stuff to change Percy's nickname from Dear to Love. Dear is one of the things Vex calls him, and I don't want to ruin that.


	4. Keeps the Doctor Away

After nearly five days, exhaustion was to be expected. But it was still an achingly long time before he woke up. Quite enough to get her itchy, _impatient_ , obsessively planning to keep herself entertained. He was like a dead man stretched out on her couch, limp and totally devoid of life, as responsive as a vegetable. That was fine, he would still be hazy, still be...compliant...It was her own impatience that _irritated_ her, as if she was weak enough to hang on his presence.

But though she might not be willing to admit it, she could sense him the moment he woke up. She had her back to him, but there was no need to see. She _knew_. Like something was connected, from her to him, and she could feel everything.

It was an electric feeling, knowing that he was awake, and somehow knowing that he was watching her. Not that he stretched and yawned, or broadly advertised his returning consciousness. He'd regained enough intelligence to try and seize some few moments of unobserved freedom. She would have been _truly_ disappointed if he had denied her this display of clever spying behind her back, crestfallen that he proved to be more boring than she'd hoped after all.

And she had to admit, the sham was very clever. No change in position, no hitch in breathing, or variance of tempo, no subtle stiffness to the body. To all outward observation, he seemed to be asleep. And yet somehow, she still knew, with absolute certainty, with a warm tingle of eyes trained on her back.

_How_ she knew, was a mystery that intrigued and disgusted her in equal measures. Because she ought to be above such a _human_ connection, ought to be aloof from it. Untouchable. But she wasn't. And it was fascinating.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully. But even as she used the sprightly tone, she felt a tug of falseness to it, because she didn't want the moment to end and almost let the regret slip into her voice. "I hope you had a good rest, it certainly seemed like you did. You've been asleep for hours love."

She could feel him shrink as soon as she spoke. The momentary resistance of watching her was gone, replaced by contrite submission when she caught him doing it. She could _feel_ it in her spine, with the same certainty that had warned her of his lucidity, as if his compliance was something that she could breathe out of the air. And the power of it, the immediate thrill of _control_ , was almost enough to make her shiver.

Rising from her seat in front of the fire, she retrieved a small bag from the corner near the door, where she had already folded her greatcoat and shed her riding boots. At last she turned to look at him, drawing a loaf of bread, water skin, and two battered tin cups out of her bag. Sitting curled up and tense at one end of the couch, he looked so young, so _vulnerable_ , it sent a ruffle of predatory fondness through her skin.

"Feeling hungry?"

The flicker _that_ question sparked in his eyes, was something he couldn't hope to conceal from her, and a smug warmth settled in the pit of her stomach. Again, she'd known, she'd felt it. Like a compass needle that invariably pointed north.

"Get down," she commanded impetuously, not knowing where the instinct came from, but giving into it none the less. "Get down, and sit on the rug."

He obeyed the order with endearing eagerness, sliding off to sit on the rug. Smiling, she crossed the room, and easily stepped over the back of the couch, to settle in the newly vacated seat with her legs tucked underneath her. After getting comfortable, she reached out to pull him closer to her, smiling when he flinched away instinctively.

"Come here love, let me touch you."

There was marked _hesitance_. But he came close enough for her to touch his shoulder, and she drew him close until he was seated right at her feet. With a press of her finger, she tilted his chin up, so that his face was looking directly up into hers. He was unable to look away from her without fighting back against the gentle guidance of her fingers, and _fear_ began to twist his face as he was laid out bare in front of her.

Fear was not her intent at the moment however, and the press of it against her, _because_ of her, was silently ignored. Ripping a piece of bread off the loaf in her lap, she pressed it against his lips. When he didn't accept it, she frowned, and pressed fingers into his cheeks, forcing his mouth open.

Once he had the bread in his mouth, he couldn't pretend to refuse anymore. Immediately, he began to chew, eyes becoming glazed. Lost to everything but the food in his mouth. But she didn't mind, it was adorable in fact, watching him so thoroughly enjoy such a simple thing. She'd known this would be entertaining, and was determined to take her time with it, just like he was. When she offered him another torn piece of bread, he didn't hesitate, and he savored it again.

She offered him water next, and this time he was dangerously eager. Over the last few days she hadn't given him more than what was just necessary, enough to keep him alive, but not nearly enough to keep him satisfied. It would have been unwise to let him drink too much, too quickly, and she pulled the water away when he tried to force it.

"Be _patient_ , boy. You'll drink when I say you can." She snapped, giving his hair a sharp tug as she spoke, and he relented, still watching the coveted water restlessly.

Now that he'd tasted the water, his appreciation of the food was dulled, and he ate more quickly this time. Still, she made him eat two more pieces of bread before she let him drink again. Allowing him the water at last, she held the cup and let him drink. He closed his eyes as he did, and it was intensely satisfying, knowing that something he savored so much had come from her. Was directly _owed_ to her.

That was all she did, for nearly an hour. Not much in the actions themselves, just him kneeling in front of her on the carpet while she fed him, but it wasn't about what she was _doing_ , it was what she was _enforcing_. He was completely dependent on her. He would eat when she wanted, drink when she wanted, and starve when she chose to make him. This wasn't even about the food, that was just her _tool_ , chosen to carry the message, this was about dominance.

This was about _ownership_.

Finally the bread was all gone, the water was all drunk, and the message was carved bone deep. His eyes were misted again. With satisfaction from the new sustenance of course, but also with blind submission. She would do whatever she liked with him, and she could tell that their little supper together had subverted his resistance; He was no longer in control, and no longer fighting against the fact. Whatever she did, he wouldn't raise a finger. Because he knew it would do nothing in the end. She owned him, and now he knew it.

"Feel better now?" She asked when the bread was gone, tossing the empty bottle aside, without watching to see where it fell. "Had a good meal?"

Opening his mouth to speak, he couldn't form the words. She could see him searching, trying to call up something like a voice, something _human_. But he couldn't find what he was searching for and at last, realizing he had yet to answer her question, he resorted to a small nod. As if he was afraid that the vague answer would make her angry.

But the answer didn't displease her. It was, in truth, exactly what she wanted, and pleased her far more than he could understand. She'd silenced him. A small but powerful little victory, taking his words, his _self expression_ , from him. Not that he understood that. He was too confused, too disoriented, too _fuzzy_ to understand. It didn't matter to him, not like it did to her, the significance was beyond him.

"Good boy, I'm glad you liked it..." She praised, bending closer so she could pet her fingers through his hair again, enjoying the feeling even though he was stiff with sweat and dirt. "It makes me happy to know that you enjoyed my little gift, but you'll have to pay for it, love. Do you understand that?"

Another small nod, but she knew he understood. She could see it in him. He'd understood before she even told him, the entire time he was eating, and before that even. Quite a smart boy indeed. She never did get tired of testing the edges of his comprehension, even now, when he wasn't thinking anymore.

"You've had your gift, now come and pay me for it."

He _shrank_ a little at that, but the submission was still there. The knowledge that she would take what she wanted anyway, still keeping him compliant, keeping him _tame_. All that time she'd spent feeding him by hand, had made a deeper impact than she'd expected.

Running a hand through his hair, she settled it at the back of his skull, and gently pulled until his legs were pressed against the couch, and he was kneeling over her. She forgot him for a moment, busy shifting herself until her skirt was pulled up, and she tugged off her undergarments, shivering as air met her skin. At last fully unclothed, she relaxed, letting her legs fall apart, and spread herself open underneath him.

He knew what she was doing of course. Of course he knew. Just like she'd known, so did he, and his eyes were growing dark again. Pupils dilated, as he began once more to shiver uncontrollably. A _flinch_ passed through him when she scratched her fingernails against his scalp, and she pulled him even closer, until she could feel the soft skin of his ear against her lips again.

"I know you understand love, it's all part of the rules." She said, breathing the words into his ear, and smiling when he shivered from the rush of her breath on his skin. "Now, do something _productive_ , and make me feel good."

She pushed him, her hands against his head pressing him downwards. The prompt was met with resistance, but nothing more than slight surface tension, and he relented. Still submitting, despite the hesitance. It wasn't enough to worry her, and was immediately forgotten as he sank lower, his fearful breathing hot against her stomach, and then her pelvis.

Then he was finally settled where she wanted him, kneeling with his head between her legs, and his breath was _so close_ , she couldn't concentrate on anything else.

It wasn't much more than breath, but she was already eager. Achingly _ready_. Shameful really, how _easily_ she became aroused, but at the moment she couldn't bring herself to care. She felt too good to let go now, and was already starving for more, her patience fraying when he didn't give her what she wanted.

Again, she scratched at his scalp, but it was vicious this time, frustrated. He wasn't pleasing her. Not enough, not the way she wanted. Just a silent message, but enough for him to understand, and he caved into her, pressing closer.

His submission to her wishes still wasn't what she wanted, only the faintest touching. Lips pressing down in a shrinking kiss against the _ache_ she wanted him to appease. But it was a _fevered_ frustration now, an irritated inflammation. A chase, pursuing what she wanted, and not quite getting it. He wasn't trying, she was barely coaxing him into this in the first place, but his clumsiness was getting her off. Just on the so right side of unsatisfactory, unrewarding, infuriating. Frustrating as hell, but she throbbed with it anyway.

Impatience was getting the better of her after all, and she couldn't let him string her out anymore, she _needed_ satisfaction. The longer this little experiment went on, the harder it got to keep civil, and she had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep herself from moaning with pleasure. Gripping tighter, she clawed her hand deeper into his hair and forced him down onto her, grinding _hard_ and savage against his face. It was sweet relief, bringing him into her, a release from the tension, and a small shuddering breath slipped through her best efforts, hanging like steam on the still air.

A sharp tug on his hair, and another demanding roll of her hips, goaded him back into action. The pressure of his lips vanished, as he opened his mouth, and allowed her to _feel_ him directly. It was still so _maddeningly_ uncoordinated, no direction, no purpose, just blindly following her lead. But now she could feel his panicky breathing, the warm slide of saliva painted across her skin, and then the awkward halfhearted swirl of his tongue against her clit when she crushed into him.

Her body recognized what happened next before her _brain_ did. As distracted as she was, as far as she'd let herself go, as _clouded_ as her judgement had become, she was totally blind, and it was only the instinctive reflexes of her body that saved her. She felt a _heave_ , and before her finer perception could catch up, she kicked his face away with her foot. With both hands tied behind his back, he had no way to break his fall, landing hard on the carpet.

Where he curled over onto his side, and _vomited_.

Two half measures of numb silence were needed before balance was regained. Sitting frozen above him, panting hard, and still _aching_ deep inside her cunt, she needed a moment to get the focus back. Touching her had so physically sickened him, he actually retched all over her carpet...

What a naughty. _Naughty_. Boy.

_Anger_ followed immediately behind the disbelief. The white hot indignation, and righteous fury, of being bitten by a mad dog. Mingled in with the disgust and revulsion of accidentally stepping ankle deep into a horse's shit. It was the most _insulting_ thing she'd ever felt, blooming upward from the inside like a poisonous fume, her carnal interests withering as soon as it stirred.

No words could express the offense. Once she finally understood what he'd done, she surged from her seat on the couch and _kicked_ him vengefully, driving hard against his face and planting another in his stomach. He instinctively curled up to protect himself, and she descended on his back, raking fingernails hard across the scarred and tender skin. Latching fingers into his hair, she dragged his head up, bringing it back so she could speak into his ear.

"That." She growled fiercely, digging her fingers cruelly into his scalp. "Was an extremely rude thing to do. You disrespectful, _whore_."

He whimpered at her words, squirming uselessly underneath her, and straining his head back to try and relieve the tension of her hand in his hair. But it wasn't enough to satisfy her now, the pleading, and whining, and pathetic begging. She was sick of it, and sick of him, and it infuriated her to see him sobbing now.

"You've been a very bad Boy." And she yanked his hair as she said it, taking triumph in his cry of pain when she did. "After everything I did to train you. You still get your disgusting _shit_ all over my floor."

"I'm sorry--" He began, regaining the voice she'd stripped from him,

But she didn't give him time to finish. She didn't want the useless apologies anyway. Instead of pulling his head back, she smashed it down, bringing his face down into stained carpet.

"Eat it!" She snarled, settling all her weight over him, and rubbing his face into the vomit.

He coughed and gagged, trying to weaken her strength, but she held him down, letting him smother. Planting one knee on his shoulders to keep her grip, she let go with one hand, clawing it into the carpet. The _filth_ of it didn't matter, she was too angry to care about how dirty it was, touching his freshly eaten bread and stomach bile. She wanted him to feel this, she wanted him to take it, take everything she could do to him.

"Eat it," she commanded again, gathering what she could, and force-feeding it into his mouth while he jerked and struggled underneath her like a dying fish. "Eat it, like the slutty little _bitch_ you are."

Finally she let him go, rising, and leaving him limp. Still dry heaving into the carpet. But it wasn't enough, wasn't enough to assuage, wasn't enough to _appease_. He hadn't taken enough yet. When she unchained him from the couch, and hauled him toward the table he began to struggle again. Violently.

Of course he did. He knew what was coming. Still such an irritatingly _smart_ boy, of course he knew. He was nothing if not a quick learner at least, he didn't have to be told, and he fought against it hard. But the brains couldn't save him, and woman as she was, she was still stronger than him. After _days_ of blood loss, sleep deprivation, almost no food, just barely enough water, and what she'd made him _submit_ to already. It was _pathetic_ really, how little he could fight back.

Weak. So fucking _weak_.

 


	5. A Sickening Patient is the Doctor's Cure

It only took an hour, to break him in again. He was already weak. Just an hour to grind him back down, and make him _submit_. Could have been sooner, perhaps. But he was high on the adrenaline of blind rebellion, resisting while he could. And the food, or more importantly sleep, much as it had subverted him at first, offered fuel when he chose to refuse her ownership.

It itched, having him fight her. Like an open sore that she couldn't stop _scratching_. He belonged to her, and having him resist was a prickling irritation. She had to have him, had to _bend_ him, like a stubborn metal that didn't want to work in her favor. It took all her training, all her _practice_ , to keep the needle sharp focus, to keep the tailored oppression intact.

But she _knew_ when he cracked. He stopped talking, stopped fighting, and she could smell the chinks in his armor. The words were first to go, just like they were the first thing he regained. After that was the physical resistance, he stopped returning attacks, biting, kicking when he thought she wasn't on guard, and then finally stopped trying to lessen pain or cushion impacts.

When he couldn't talk anymore, he _looked_ all the same, eyes trained on her every move. And here at last, was the final defense, the last cracked trembling barrier she'd missed. His intelligence. Taking refuge in what he could read of her, in the game of pleasing her while sheltering himself, finding the right thing to make her happy.

That was _unacceptable_.

He would never truly submit, until she broke him. Took that lovely brain she _admired_ so much, and enslaved it. Made it cling to her approval. In the end, it would be easy, and for her, considerably more pleasant to inflict. He was at the end, where he was just barely clinging...

That was when she raped him again.

 _Touching_ was the final nail in his resistance. She knew. Bone deep, she _knew_ it. She had to make him feel like she could crush him with a finger. And she took her time to make it _humiliating_. No more talking to him, let his own mind supply the dirty whispers, the guilt. He'd take himself apart trying to resist, and then she'd finish him when he was ready. It was like watching a flower wilt, seeing him crumble, slowly fading.

He slipped into a cottony daze, and his last line of resistance, the eyes, became glazed and submissive. She ordered him to rub against her hands, while she teased him, and he did. She ordered him to let her drool in his mouth and he did. She ordered him to _say her name_ and he did. She ordered him to come, and she _praised_ him when he did.

After that she had to let him rest for a bit. Let him sit with her on the couch, hang his head against her shoulder, and trailed her fingers over his bound arms while she waited. At last she sighed and straightened, running fingers up to his face against her shoulder, and pushing two fingers into his mouth. When she crooked her fingers, and pressed _down_ against his tongue, he obediently sucked, and she shivered appreciatively when she felt the scarred line she'd left across the surface. She'd claimed him here too.

"Come here love." She murmured, even though they were already almost sharing the same seat.

With her free hand, and rolling her shoulders, she managed to unbutton, and let down the top of her shirt. Using the fingers she still had in his mouth, she pulled him down to her exposed breasts. His _breath_ against them made her shiver, raising sandpaper bumps across her arms, and she let him hang for a moment just to enjoy the tingle of it. Finally though, she grew impatient again, and pressed her fingers up against the roof of his mouth, coaxing him open, and sliding the fingers into his hair.

She pushed his head, and he obeyed, his mouth wrapping around one of her breasts. The nipples were already hard, just from his breathing, and the warmth of him sucking kindled a coil of warmth in her gut. Arching her back, she gave in a little, biting her lip at the _wave_ of pleasure even the slight movement sent down to her center.

His tongue, boiling hot, and scarred across the center, passed over her nipple. And he pulled it between his lips before he switch to the other side, painting the other breast with saliva. She was already getting _wet_ , the now familiar slide soaking into her clothing, and she pressed herself down against the couch cushion to stimulate herself further. The contact of his tongue broke away when she moved, like following an invisible cue, and she immediately hooked a finger in his mouth again.

"Get down..."

Uncurling her legs, she nudged him off the couch with a foot, and pulled him to a kneeling position at her feet with the finger she had in his mouth.

"Now," she purred, opening her legs again, and _settling_ in front of him. "We're going to try this again, and see if you can _behave_ this time."

Again she guided him with the finger, pulling him within inches of her, then running the wet finger over his cheek, leaving it shiny. When her finger drifted away from his cheek, he shifted forward, following where he'd rebelled against her last time. Still hesitant, but it was the _newness_ that frightened him now, the possibility of displeasing her in some way. He was submissive this time, though struggling in unfamiliar territory.

But she was more accustomed to the feeling of his breath this time. Didn't fall as hard, or as _fast_ , still able to keep her composure, take the time to wind herself up. When he moved, she stopped him with the finger on his lips, willing to deny herself a little. She didn't want him yet. Soon, but not quite _yet_.

"Kiss," she said, pulling his head into her thigh near the base, "right there."

Obediently he pressed his lips against the tender skin, so close to where she was already _longing_ for him, and she growled when it wasn't enough. The _lust_ that was burning between her legs demanded more, a cry for satisfaction that went unanswered, and she almost caved right there. She nudged at his head, he switched to the other leg, his breath ghosting across her cunt as he moved, and she shuddered with an involuntary spasm of _warmth_ through her center. Gods yes, that was what she needed.

When she finally, _finally_ , guided his mouth to her cunt, it was fire, sweetness, and exquisite solace. She had to hear herself, she couldn't help it, and moaned wordlessly. The hand she had in his hair reached down to grip the cushions underneath her, and she chased for more with her hips, pressing up against his mouth. And when the kiss became a long sucking sensation, she could have climaxed right then and there from the heady feeling of so much _control_ , so much unrivaled _power_. But she couldn't let it be over yet, she had to feel more.

"Open your mouth," she demanded breathlessly, clamping a hand in his hair again, and grinding him down. "Use your tongue."

It made her lightheaded when he did it...a long stroke of his tongue against her already swollen clit, driving her up again, back to the _edge_ where she could push herself over. Still wasn't enough though, she still needed more, and silently demanded _another_ with a buck of her hips. He obeyed, as pliant as she'd made him, as strong as her control was becoming, of course he obeyed. He sank into her, and she keened breathlessly, reveling in the feast of depraved sensations.

Nothing registered but that for a while. Just the mind numbing _pleasure_. The luscious distraction from logic, from higher reasoning, giving in to base animal instincts. He really was doing a wonderful job of making her forgetful, and she drank it in, drank _all of it_ in. Relishing every stroke of his tongue, every curl, every press, every pull and faint suck. As he obediently teased her clit, and pleasured her constantly with his tongue.

She still needed _more_.

By this time her cunt was _burning_ with greed, with white hot desire, with aching longing. Demanding more, demanding him. Demanding _fingers_. At every pass of his tongue, she could almost feel the mirroring press of a hand. She could almost imagine his stroking, his hot rubbing, deep inside, and the fantasy kindled an itching burn. A _flare_ accompanying every caress he laid on her clit, until it was driving her mad with the craving.

"I need fingers, love." She gasped shakily, breath hitching with the roll of his scarred tongue across her where she was almost painfully sensitive.

But he didn't know what she wanted. She could see that. He didn't have enough experience, and paused for half an instant, glancing up at her fearfully. Afraid to anger her with delay, but equally fearful of offending her by admitting his ignorance. It sent a spike of misery through her gut, being deprived of her _stimulation_ , and she whined with the loss. But as much as she was enjoying his tongue, she needed more right now, and if she wanted it she'd have to _teach_ him.

"Stop, come here, come up here with me."

Even as she spoke, she dragged him to her, until he was sitting up on his knees, and leaning against her for support. Pulling him closer, she reached down, until she found his ass, and paused to smooth a hand over him, enjoying the sensation.

"I'll tell you what to do," she whispered hot against his ear. "I'm going to show you where I want your fingers, and you're going to touch me, like I'm about to show you. Understand?"

He nodded against her shoulder, she finally found what she was searching for, and pressed two fingers inside him. He whimpered and shuddered against her, flinching away from her _stroking_ , even though he couldn't escape. It made her giddy with the power again, and part of her was on the edge of suddenly changing directions completely. She could almost have taken him again. Kneeling in front of her, with her fingers in his ass, and her own hunger for _dominion_ sweetening the debauchery of it.

It was _tempting_ , and even though she declined the idea, she couldn't bring herself to pull her fingers out. Distracted as she was, it took her a few moments longer to finally locate the keys to his shackles among the others jumbled in his pocket, and clumsily move to unlock them. Letting him loose was certainly a _risk_ , after what had happened the last time she let him have even one hand free. But she'd spent hours training him since then. She knew he would never resist, in her direct presence. She _knew_.

Finally he was free, and she _immediately_ dragged his hand down to her cunt, letting the fingers brush across her clit before sinking lower. "Right here, put your fingers in." She murmured, drawing him close so she could speak in his ear.

At her prompting he pushed in, pressing two fingers inside her, where she was starving, where she was almost _begging_ by now. Wet and softened, ready to yield and embrace, ready to accept him. She couldn't stop herself from arching her back, biting painfully on her lower lip, and her cunt clenched down _hard_ and possessive, sucking him _deeper_.

She was suddenly on fire, _burning alive_ with his touch buried in her flesh, and she instinctively ground against him, fucking herself greedily on his fingers. Words didn't matter, she couldn't have praised him for obeying her anyway, and she brought her mouth up to capture his in a kiss. Arousal blazed in her mouth as she sank into him, finding a crack and forcing her way in, moaning against his lips.

The only things that mattered were the _sensations_. His body shaking in her arms, the grip of his hand on her breast, when she guided it to touch her there. The molten hot slide of her tongue over his, tasting every inch of him, and tugging on his lower lip. The sinful sound of his _fingers_ buried in her cunt, and the burn of them moving inside her. And under it all the absolutely unacceptable _noises_ she was making against his mouth.

She _craved_ more.

"Go back down." And she thrust him away from the kiss, back toward her cunt, her hips already rising up to meet him. "Use your tongue, touch me more, that's right, thats--"

Such an _obedient_ boy! As he bent to taste her, to goad her more, _torturing_ with his tongue. Riding the swell of her own stimulation, her hand found his hair again, and she ground against his face and hand, thirsting for more.

" _Fuck_ \--" she broke off into a keening moan, shuddering and throwing her head back against the couch. "Yes, yes. _There_! Right there! That's it, that's it, touch me there..."

He was stroking her exactly where she _itched_ for it. Where she shuddered and moaned and lost her voice, _flinching_ with every pass, and still chasing for more. Sinking in deep, stroking her hard, and coaxing her toward the breaking point. The broad of his tongue lapped across her, bringing a spike of mind numbing _sensation_ at every touch, and she couldn't stop herself from squeezing down around his fingers with every wet stroke of his tongue.

"More." She commanded, even though she was already working hard to keep herself _open_ , to _relax_ after every swell of pleasure, to suck him deeper, open _wider_. To keep herself from clenching down hard and _final_. "Give me more, don't stop--"

The maddening rub of his fingers pressed in _deeper_ , his tongue teased down _irresistible_ on her clit, he crooked his fingers inside her pressing deep against her cunt, and she _came_. Climaxing hard and _sudden_ , the noise she made was one of pure animal arousal. High pitched, and sensual. It was the pinnacle, an unreachable hight she scaled in an instant, mounting to the _peak_ and hanging there. She crushed down hard around his fingers, grinding against them, still riding his fingers through the white hot climax.

It took a moment for her to come down, the world coming back in pieces. Dropping her head back, she rolled her hips leisurely against his face, still _spasming_ around the fingers buried inside her. Milking her peak for all it was worth, and taking time to draw out every last _moment_ through the aftershocks.

Then she finally relaxed, reaching down to pull his fingers out, and drawing his head up. Unbottoning her shirt completely, she pulled it off and wiped his face, making sure to take her time and clean him _thoroughly_. If she made him take care of her, without ever taking time for him, it would begin to rankle. His shivered and looked down, his face beginning to work, clearly trying desperately to hold himself together. And when she saw a _tear_ slither down his cheek, the _dominance_ deep inside purred like a kitten.

"Oh, lovey, come here." She murmured softly, voice as gentle and _motherly_ as she could make it, and she gathered him into her, letting him rest his head on her stomach. "Shush now, you did good, it's alright. You did perfect."

She owned him, and the moment she pulled him toward her, he yielded. His arms wound around her, he hid his face in the skin of her stomach, and he _cried_. Like the frightened boy he really was. And she comforted him with a fondness she didn't have to fake, letting him sniff, letting him take as long as he liked, just resting. Enjoying silk of his tears against her skin.


	6. Healthy Doesn't Mean Healed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it super fucked up that I kinda don't want to end this? But really, there's only so much Percy can take, or in other words, I'm running out of ideas.

It was the sister. Cassandra. She’d helped him escape, little witch! Halted the work before it was complete, before she was satisfied, before she was finished! It wasn’t completed yet, and that meddlesome, insidious, foxy little _slut_ had ruined everything!

A faint ringing in her ears was all that registered at first, the empty cell before her, and the wrongness of it. They weren’t finished yet. She wasn’t finished yet. It was a sharp, sharp, burning irritation. The incongruity of it, the tattered edges. An irritation quickly mounting in rising fury.

"--Hadn't detected it, and they probably used it to escape." the voice of the man next to her filtered into her brain, speaking over the rise of anger in her head. "We have the girl of course, one of the archers clipped her in the chest three times, good man. Silas is with her now, and he wants you to patch her up when he's finished, they thi--"

She could hardly stand his idiotic babbling, and interrupted him before he could finish. With a sudden vicious movement, she threw him face first against the cell bars, then pressed up against his back, twisting one of his arms back painfully. He gave a surprised exclamation, then an indignant complaint which she silenced by bringing his arm so far back she almost dislocated the shoulder.

"I don't give a fuck about the girl." She snarled angrily, breathing the words into his ear, and leaning more weight against his arm until he squirmed. "Where is _Percival_?"

"He's gone!" The man said, trying to free himself. "Jumped off a cliff, went into the rapids, and killed himself, rather than let our boys catch him alive."

It filled her head with white hot anger, with lightheaded fury, hearing that. The _waste_ of it! The wonton destruction of such a beautiful mind, an unlimited potential of intellect. Such an astounding talent. Drowned like a dog because the soldiers didn't have the _brains_ to stop hounding him, to slacken the chase when he threatened suicide. It was disgusting, so tactless, and clumsy!

Blind, stupid, ignorant _fools_!

The man roared like a wounded animal when she dislocated his shoulder, breaking him with a loud crack. But it didn't matter, he didn't matter. The only thing that counted was the wave of satisfaction that ruffled over her, the wolf's smile she couldn't help but indulge, the small measure of restorative offered by punishing one of the idiots for their stupidity.

As the fool howled and sobbed, cradling his wounded arm like a baby, she left the cell. There was no more time for him, her mind had already moved on to other matters. Finding her way blindly back to her laboratory, she entered and shut the door, turning around to lean against the wood and take in the space before her.

The table, stained cherry going to a dark raspberry in places by blood, by his blood. Her tools laid out in neat lines of spotless brilliance and organized by type, every one of them ready for specific uses. Medical bags with all her chemicals, drugs, herbs, and other ingredients, used to put her sweet little Percival into a doze when she got tired of him. In front of the fire was the rug and the couch, her knitting needles, and even the length of chain still secured around one of the legs.

It was all pointless, only a broken mockery of the ruined project, the artwork that had been rudely shattered. The sight of it all rankled, curling black knives into her gut. She hated it, the _unfinished_ of it.

She pressed her head back against the door, flattening her palms on the wood, but logic didn't help. This defied logic from the beginning, had from the moment he was laid onto her table, already so frightened and vulnerable and _naked_ with his clothes on. It had nothing to do with intellect, and the draw of it was still as nebulous as it had been from the start, still an instinctive connection she didn't understand. Would never understand, because now it was broken, torn and frayed in pieces before her, like the bloodied trail of body parts left scattered after the slaughter.

It wasn't _finished_.

Somehow the sight of the basin, still full of blood and water, was the last straw, and she sent it crashing to the floor. Listening to the shatter of the pottery, the crack of it, was like listening to the shatter of the project itself. It was broken, and messy, leaving her breathing hard and shaking.

The sound sent ribbons of pleasure breezing through her, another release, like the guard's punishment. Intensely satisfying, for _no fucking reason_ , and she suddenly craved more, without knowing what she was perusing. Still blind, still confused, still oppressed by the feeling of not knowing.

She hated it: the not knowing.

Another crash followed, this time one of her bottles of medicinal spirits, sending raw alcohol painted across the floor and stinking. One of the trays of tools followed, holding an array of needles, thin pointed things for irritating nerves into shredding fire. A stack of books that she scattered, taking a vindictive relish in the tearing of pages. Then a knife, that she stabbed down into the table, sinking it into the memory of Percival himself.

That brought her to a standstill, and she was frozen, once again focused. Brought out of the blind rage and back into calculation, into sudden bright understanding. And she _knew_.

It was truly childish, the wreckage left behind by her tantrum, but she was a woman built on the science of exploration. On calculations, on experiments, on breaking a thing to find out how it worked, on articulation, on ends that justified means. And if her destructions produced a solution, she was not one to care about the sacrifice that had been made to reach it, or argue with the results. She'd broken the careful organization of her space, compromised her composure, and destroyed some fragile objects that were wasteful to break, but she'd produced results, and that was all that mattered.

Breath still coming sharp and labored, she straightened, working hard to loosen the white knuckled grip she still had around the knife. That was a bit of a shame, there was nothing wrong with that particular knife, but now it was probably unusable by her fine standards. With a jerk she pulled it out, laying it back in it's place among the other knives, and moved to gather the needles next, clearing away broken crockery and other fragments of her rage. But the sterile peace of her space was disturbed, jarred with reminders in recent memory, the floor still damp with water and brandy. It couldn't be helped.

At last, with nothing left that could be done to promote greater order, and she settled. Giving herself a long stretch, she lounged herself out on the couch, and took up her knitting again, passing the time with mundane distraction. The direction of her thoughts had nothing to do with the unconscious dance of her hands, they were just the background, the mindless occupation which allowed her to wander. Silence took the room, without his labored breathing providing a constant undertone, and it settled into the cracks, everything returning once more into the quiet order of a disciplined mind.

The sudden complete change from everything that was new, unfathomable, frustratingly intriguing, to what was well worn, understood, tried and true, might have been jarring. But she'd discovered the answer, and having found the answer to her equation, there was no reason for it to frustrate her anymore. All she could do now, was sit in her quiet contemplation, and delight in turning the answer over in her mind, marveling at the perfection of it.

The connection was kinship. He was like her, more than that, he _was_ her. Younger, softer, less hardened by the world, but he was still like her, a mirror. Just as intelligent, just as greedy for knowledge, just as obsessed with understanding, just as driven, just as methodical, just as _ruthless_. He was willing to go to any length, if it bought him what he wanted.

The connection was _art_.

More than just her mirror, he was her _creation_. A picture painted in her likeness, a sonnet penned in her name, a statue carved in her image. Like the finest clock maker she had fitted every one of his pieces, and all that had been left to do, was wind him up and set him ticking.

It was a miracle, a gift from fate herself, that had formed him. Maybe he'd carried potential, a sharper intellect, a clever wit, but what use would a noble's second son have ever made of such gifts. The talent he possessed would have languished away, until it rotted to nothing, and he would have made nothing more of himself than a _waste_ , a mockery of all he might have been. It took fire to purify talent like that, and here had the world been, ready to wring him. _She_ had been there, ready to sharpen, ready to twist, ready to break him.

Such a gift, but she knew he would never accept it. He would never have the understanding to realize all she had done for him, and thank her for it, but that didn't matter. What sword had ever thanked its smith, for hammering it into shape.

She had formed him, and that was enough to stir her, that was a soft truth seated deep in the center of herself, a pride that warmed her to the core. She'd formed him, and that knowledge was enough to give her stimulation. The knitting was forgotten, as one hand ghosted its way downwards, and she pressed fingers against herself. She had made him.

He was her creation. It was she that had carved through to the center of him, peeled back all the intervening layers, broken through all the hardened resistance, and lacerated delicate claws across the soft core of his soul. He might heal back together, of a fashion, the scar still flayed and raw, but he'd never remove the shape she'd carved into his deepest self. He would still _belong_ to her, no matter where he ran, no matter where he hid. The flesh of his body would still belong to her, the one to touch him first. The fixation of his soul would still crave for her, the one to master him completely.

That was the one truth that satisfied her the most, that he would never be _free_ of her. She had marked and ravaged his body, crushed and scorched his will, dominated his mind and enslaved him to her. He would never admit it, and never forget it.

And maybe she didn't know it then, as she touched and pleasured herself, teasing herself into a gentle ache that left her warm and loose when it was sated. She couldn't have known it when Silas finally summoned her to stitch up the youngest's broken scars that Percival had left her with, rather than be dragged back. She didn't know as life returned to it's ordered day to day, and she found new work, new riddles to intrigue her.

She didn't know it _then_ , but as time went on and stories spread, stories of a strange weapon, of a scourge with white hair, she knew it later. That she had created something exquisite, something terrifying in its _beauty_ , a weapon that she had built and released. That she had made a man, and the man had made a monster. She knew it, and she knew it would come back for her. There was no need to chase him, he would come back to her, and she would embrace his brokenness again, glorying in the wreck she had made of him

She _knew_ it.

That when he destroyed, he would think of _her_ , of her destruction. That when he mutilated and wounded, it was she that had mutilated and twisted him first, giving him the tools for others. When he killed, he must be thinking of her, imagining _her_ body and _her_ eyes staring dead and lifeless. She knew that he practiced, that he grew hardened, that everything he did could only be a preparation. She knew that he was broken, and it was _she_ that had broken him. That every time he would touch a woman, he would think of her, and all that she had seized from him _first_. That she had taken the deepest parts of him, that she had taken his fingers when he touched her, his mouth when he tasted her, his dignity when he bowed to her, his manhood when she raped him.

She _owned_ him.

It was a truth that stayed with her, as time went on. And though she might distract herself with other concerns, she never forgot, never grew _tired_ of it. Years passed by, but she still knew, she still felt it. A warm glow of heavy pregnant satisfaction, the pride of an _artist_ in his work, the memories that got her off, quiet moments taken with her fingers. She didn't indulge often, but she touched every now and then, just enough to keep her sated, keep her satisfied.

He belonged to her. She'd made him, _claimed_ him. He was her project, and all she'd had to do was wind him up, break him, and he would go on to break everything else.


	7. Happy Isn't Whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this wasn't depressing enough already, here's a bonus chapter. Although it's better at the end than the beginning, Percy is still pretty royally fucked up, and sometimes Smexy Time doesn't go like it should.

He'd laid his demons to rest. Not just laid them aside, he'd destroyed them, literally and figuratively. Sent them screaming back into the abyss of Hell. Also literal, or with Her at least, he hoped it was.

That still didn't change the fact that it all went to shit, _really fucking fast_.

It wasn't his idea exactly, but he hadn't exactly been adamant about refusing it either, it had sounded a little bit nice. Just a bit, a tiny bit, the _tiniest_ bit intriguing. That really was a lie. He'd never wanted anything so badly. Getting out of his head for a minute so he could just enjoy it. Not having to think about where to put his hands, what to do with his fingers, how to make it better. Having Vex in control of it, just that was enough to make him, should he say...flexible...She could always get so creative when left to herself.

And the truly pitiful part is that he was enjoying it. He _was_. It had ended up being one of the dozen or so silk sashes in garish colors that Scanlan seemed to have an endless supply of, (an entire walk in closet full in the Mansion as it turned out). Because Vex didn't want it to hurt, and because (as she said) Scanlan would either be pissed as _hell_ , or hide it away in shrine to Vex, surrounded by pictures of her, for him to jack off to. A memento of the dirty, quite uncivilized sex they had without him knowing. Vex liked that, the idea of showing it off, like it was an achievement. "Hey Scanlan, you know how you're always bragging about how you can bed anyone you want? Well I just got Percival to let me strap him down with your scarf, fucked his brains out, _and_ he liked it. How's that for seduction?"

He didn't really care, the point was what Vex wanted, and she wanted the scarf. So that was how he'd ended up, laid out shirtless on the bed, arms above his head with the sash knotted around his wrists so he still had a little slack between him and the bed. How he'd ended up completely at the mercy of the most sumptuous, foxy, and admittedly terrifying, goddess of desire he'd ever had the pleasure of looking upon.

Of course she'd teased. It was her way. Making him wait while she slowly undressed, and while she climbed on the bed, and while she stood over him. And then even more, while she knelt down over him and slid delicate white fingers in between her own legs to wind him up, playing with herself until he could _smell_ her arousal, until he'd never lusted after any woman's flesh so _fiercely_ as he thirsted for her.

She wanted him to beg, hanging so tantalizingly close, she wanted him to plead and get her off harder. But much as he wanted to please her, wanted to follow her lead, he couldn't beg. He never could. She'd asked before, but it was something he couldn't give. It ruined the moment, took something that made him pant and squirm with want, and killed it without a moment's ceremony. He just couldn't. Of course she would still ask, still leave a moment where he could beg if he wanted to, but she'd let it go when he didn't respond, and he was glad when she let it go now.

Part of him had been so caught up with her, he hadn't even realized how excited she'd already made him, and when she fingered him through his clothes suddenly it was more than he'd anticipated. It really was shameful, the noise she drew from him when she pushed a hand under his belt, wrapped a hand over his cock and ghosted a finger around the head. The kind of noise that he always bit back, because someone would hear, and it really wasn't something he could _do_.

"Don't you dare," she scolded, pulling her hand away and making him press after her, silently pleading to have her back. "No proper decorum today."

She pushed up, until her hands were planted on either side of his head, and one leg was accidentally-on-purpose pressing against his groin, and he _immediately_ ground against her. That made her grin, so roguish like she always was, and press in for a kiss that really was just an excuse to press her leg harder and at a better angle. He groaned into her mouth, shuddering with it, and she just kept devouring into him slow and gentle, another kind of teasing.

"I'm going to do whatever I want today, and today I want you to listen to yourself." Vex murmured, her lips still moving against his, and she licked in for another _deeper_ taste when she'd finished speaking. Somehow she still found the coordination to get one hand down to where her leg was already pressed, undoing his belt and finding just enough slack to get his erection free of his clothes, and he let out another groan against her mouth and pushed up into her hand, undeniably needy.

"Cry for me..." She commanded gently. The trail of her mouth, as tongue sank down his bare chest, left wet maddening kisses down his neck and collar bones. It had him writhing again, breathing hard and wordlessly groaning from it. Listening was like hearing an entirely different person, a strange sense of arousal, knowing that she could _make_ him sound like that.

"That's right, let it out, that's good." She praised, still sinking farther and leaving strokes of her tongue across his stomach. "You always make me take it slow, but today I'm going to take it just as rough as I like it."

The heat of her mouth found him, taking his cock sudden and demanding into her mouth. And it was too much, too soon, too _close_. He couldn't let her drag him that deep. Even as his body responded, getting hard and instinctively trying to press deeper into her mouth, he brought his hands down to push her off, push her back.

And he couldn't stop her.

It was so _sudden_ that he couldn't think. He was drowning without water, trying to fight for air, but totally unable to breathe. The fact that he was trapped, pinned down and flightless, that he couldn't get out, couldn't get _away_. Couldn't stop her. He had to stop her, and he couldn't. He was tied down.

"Percival?"

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods...please... _please_ not this again...

"Percival darling?"

He barely kept it down when his stomach heaved, suddenly overwhelming him with nausea. No. No. No. He had to keep control. He couldn't loose it now, couldn't expose it, not here, not like this. Keep control, just keep control. The chant rose within him as another roll of his stomach turned him boneless, loose and twisted like wet string. The world turning to blind static as his inner self still demanded control. Control, control, control.

"Percy! Darling, you're scaring me, what's wrong?"

It was far too late to climb out of it anymore. The ugly mass of it had waited, coiled tight and small in the dark corner, but it was unfolding now. And he could do nothing but submit. It wanted him, and he was pinned, wounded and _bleeding_. Too weak to keep it in any longer.

"Percy dear," her hand was on his cheek, pleading. The touch stretched him to the breaking point, gagging on another wave of stomach turning panic, and his _fear_ released before he could stop himself. Brain catching up to his body when it was too late, and warmth was already spreading into his pants, and he groaned with the shredded agony of it. The gaping festering _shame_ of giving into bodily instinct under her.

"Oh my god." Her voice was terrified, hand pulling away, as she realized what he'd done. "Percival...Oh my god, hold on. Just a sec, hold still...I see, I see, I see."

The heat of her fingers at his wrists seared across his clammy skin, burning him hotter then any brand he'd ever felt. It made him keen with the pain of it. The chanting repetition of her voice as she struggled, I see, I see, I see, flowed unconsciously. It was forgotten and unchecked. Then he felt slack, the pressure loosening, and it was gone, leaving him empty without it. As soon as he was free her hands were at face ready to soothe him, and in the same instant he was fighting back with a strength and _vehemence_ he didn't know he still possessed.

With a desperate surge, he threw her away from him with all the force he could muster. Still weaker and clumsier than an attempt made with a clear head would have been, resistible by anyone who was expecting it, but she neither expected nor resisted it, and easily yielded to the animalistic force. Then his only thought, if it even was _coherent_ enough for that, was away. Get away, get away, get away. Somewhere safe, and far, far, far, from here, as he gave in to blind instincts.

Couldn't breathe, couldn't see, all he felt was the need, the need to find a way out. When he felt the press of walls closing in on either side, all he thought was that he couldn't go any farther. So he turned and planted his back in the corner, trapped and ready to lash out at _anything_ that got close enough. It was the only thing he had left.

"Percival..."

She was still there, and he was so _scared_ of her, he thought it would choke him. And now he was pinned again, sealed between walls he couldn't escape, with her like another invisible barrier closing him in.

She was still there, so he hid from her.

Drawing up his knees to bury his face. The last little defense he could muster, shutting her out. The only thing he still possessed.

"Percy darling, it's me." And he could hear her getting closer, hesitant, wary, but still pressing. Still _intruding_. "Darling you're safe, it's just me, you're not in cages anymore."

And fuck, but she was still too damn good at taking him apart. Just her reassurance made his heart ache, because he wanted so badly for it to be true. Because he wanted it to be over. But it wasn't over. She was still there, still coming closer, pressing him back until he would be forced to yield again. And again, and again, and _again_.

A hand found the edge of his knee, just faintly touching against him with the tips of her fingers, and he felt himself splinter. Would she never just leave? God, he just wanted this to be over. Wanted her to just finish him, take pity and let him rest. Wanted to be so flawed, so _defective_ , that she would just put him down. He whined at the touch because he never _could_ hide from her, and flinched away, breaking the contact of her fingers, and she drifted apart.

"Percy, please..." It was desolate, tired, and hollow, nothing more than an inner longing given voice. Then she was gone, the pressure of her against his skin vanished, as she slithered back from him, careful to move quietly.

She didn't _stay_ away, and in a few moments she was back. He hunched protectively again, flinching in preparation, as her shadow descended over him, swallowing him whole. Then he was completely blind, lost in the dark.

But it wasn't her shadow, it was something warm and soft that _shielded_ him. A blanket from the bed that tented over him, cocooning him in to a tiny velvety shelter. Her arms coiled around him, gathering him closer, and she draped her weight over him, a second heavier protection. It was a dizzying relief, no longer being exposed, being _naked_ , and he couldn't help but loosen to her. Then her voice in his ear, distant, muffled by the fabric, still protected from her by his new shelter. She was whispering in his ear, instructing him to _breathe_ , an endless chant of 'in, and out, in, and out, in, and out." He numbly tried to obey, struggling to match his own rapid gasps to her slow methodical rhythm.

When the panic began to fade it left suffocating despair. There was no way to hold it in anymore, and he _sobbed_ , like he hadn't allowed himself to in years. And it hurt, oh gods _it hurt_ to let it out. She was shushing him again, and gathered him closer, until he was curled in her lap and she had her arms pressed around his head and shoulders. And when he was pulled so close he could feel her shaking, frail as he was, and weeping with him. Could hear her voice in his ear as it murmured over and over "my boy...my boy...my boy...my boy..." Could feel the muffled touch of her hand, petting his hair. Could feel the motherly tenderness of her lips through the blanket. And every touch of it exactly like, and yet not at all the same. How it _should_ have been, and hadn't. As she just held him, rocking back and forth...

Hours, or minutes, he hardly knew. Time had no meaning. It was just her gentle sway, as she caressed him through the blanket, still whispering that endless chant of 'my boy, my boy,' in his ear. Until he was in a daze. Until he was breathing, slow and heavy, without being asleep. Until he knew he was safe. As long as they were like this, he would aways be safe. Finally she stopped rocking, not trying to stir him, but letting him be still.

"Do you want to come out?" She asked gently, when he took a deeper breath and stirred slightly. He couldn't find it in himself to talk, or even shake his head, but she didn't seem to care. It was answer enough.

"Should I go away?" That question managed to move him, anxiety stirring as soon as she spoke, and he pressed his head deeper into her shoulder with a whimper. Frightened and _clinging_. "No, no, no," she hurriedly soothed, "I won't go. I'm here, I won't leave."

Silence fell again, and she went back to rocking, quieting him back into the cottony security. The fear inspired by the mention of her leaving quickly drained out of him, and he briefly lost himself again. She was here. She was _here_ , and she wouldn't leave. But before such a long time had passed, she stilled again, bringing him back to a semi lucid state.

"Do you mind if I move you?" She asked, and when he relaxed against her, it seemed like enough of an answer to satisfy her. Keeping him sheltered in the blanket, she shifted him until they were both standing, her arms still around him, gathering him in like something to caress and protect. Her hands found his waistband, but there was no longer any lust in the movement of her fingers, as she pushed soiled fabric away and helped him out of the limp pile. Cold air met his skin, and she wrapped her arms around him again, as if she were trying to keep him warm. One step at a time she pushed him back to her side of the bed, gently letting him down until he was lying flat, and settling beside him with his forehead pressed into her chest.

"Can I come in?" She hazarded, her voice so _small_ it hardly sounded like her, as if she though he wouldn't let her. As soon as she mentioned it, he suddenly needed it desperately, and melted into her, letting his arms cling around her waist. At once she ducked under the blanket, taking care not to let in any light, and slid up until she was settled where she'd been before.

The subtle scent of her skin filled his brain, nuzzling into the hollow of her shoulder, and his skin tingled where her fingers combed through the hair on the back of his head. His breathing unconsciously attuned to hers, seeing and feeling and desiring nothing but the silence in that exact moment. The smell of her eased him back into his former abstraction, and where she touched him, she did it with an almost worshipful care. As if he were the finest china that would shatter with the slightest breath of wind.

They would get no farther than that. Not on that night, or the next either. But neither of them felt that anything more could possibly be wanting. He was _safe_ , and that was the only thing either of them knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look at that, I gave myself a Sad...


End file.
